Fletched in White
by theFierceKiss
Summary: In which Dorian calls Lavellan's hart a moose


"And what exactly, will you be calling that moose?"

"That what?"

Ymrann looked up to meet Dorian's gaze. Master Dennet had requested the Inquisitor's presence three days prior and presented to the elf a Brecillian hart. The horse master had said "Thedas hasn't seen an inquisitor in nine-hundred years, and an elvish one at that. Inquisition needs a mount to match the legend he is becoming!" Ymrann had spent every spare moment in the stables since then, stepping out only when summoned. Even Dorian hadn't been able to lure him out for more than minutes at a time.

The Inquisitor was wearing what undoubtedly must be very comfortable set of breeches and a linen tunic. Hardly regal attire, especially given that Dorian had just found the elf on his knees brushing the hart. Josephine and Vivien had worked with untold diligence and discipline to turn this Dalish elf into an impeccable-or at least, presentable-Orlesian noble for the ball, but it seemed that the woods could not be taken out of the elf. Josephine would sigh, accept this and devise a diplomatic scheme with which to use the Inquisitor's humble nature to the Inquisition's advantages. Vivien would summon the elf and quietly remind him that while noble, such nature would only be perceived as weakness among the players of the Game. Dorian simply delighted that his lover had straw in his hair and dirt on his knees even as one of the most powerful men in Thedas. He would have Lavellan no other way.

"A moose, Lord Inquisitor." -Ymrann grimaced as the title rolled off Dorian's tongue smoothly. Although he never tired of hearing his lover's nectar-sweet voice, Ymrann knew he would never truly feel comfortable being addressed 'Lord Inquisitor,' by anyone. His newly-gained favor in the Orlesian court-or is it the court that had won favor with him?-still set his stomach churning. He longed to walk beside his clan's aravels again, helping his brother herd the halla or gather herbs as his Keeper bid him. Alas, home, for time being, was Skyhold; so Ymrann decided to speak as would befit 'Lord Inquisitor.'

"And what, pray tell, Master Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous-or should it now be Skyhold-is a moose? Please, do enlighten us with your unfathomable well of knowledge."

Dorian chuckled, and Ymrann thought for all its faults, being 'Lord Inqisitor' may be a small price to pay to hear such a sound. Truly, he had never dreamed of such a man in the Free Marches; he would never have dreamed of such a man as Dorian until he had met him. He certainly would never have imagined the warmth of Dorian's embrace, the firmness with which the Tevene held him, the feather-soft kisses dancing across his back as Dorian—

And the stables were an entirely inappropriate place for such thoughts and recollections. Ymrann only hoped he wasn't blushing too noticeably. If Dorian took note of the flushed cheeks beneath the white vallaslin, he did not show it. Instead he continued with quiet glee.

"Vivien'd have told you it is a poor way to play the Game. But then again, neither you nor I play it to win."

"Anyway, a moose is a hooved forest-dwelling beast living in the Anderfels, with antlers that stretch as wide as a Qunari is tall. Although I have never seen one in life, your Brecillian hart bears quite the resemblance to illustrations I saw as a child. In my childhood, I quite adored almanacs and encyclopedia filled with pictures, you see."

It was Ymrann's turn to smile, for he could imagine a black-haired, grey-eyed boy reading ravenously. The Magister, as some whispered just out of earshot despite Dorian's repeated clarification that he was a Tevene _mage_, not a _magister_, spent his days in Skyhold's growing library, tirelessly cataloguing and researching. As colorful as his words may be, Dorian's mind was a scholar's, and Ymrann had no trouble imagining a childhood filled with books and curiosity. Dorian's nights were spent in the Inquisitor's bed, but that was no one's business but Dorian and Ymrann's.

"Most children favor picture books that tell stories of kings and queens, not of the wonders of zoology."

"You wound me. Surely you would not think I was such a simple child?"

"I would not think less of you if you had enjoyed tales of kings and queens, Dorian. A child is a child even if precocious, and none are ever simple."

"I suppose you are right, as you usually are. Although, you still haven't answered my question-have you a name for this beast?"

Ymrann wished he could answer more confidently. He shifted his gaze from Dorian, stepping back into the hart's stall. Dorian approached the stall with a handful of grain and extended his hand to the beast. With lips pulled in an easy smile, Dorian quipped:

"You've been spending so much time here, I'm beginning to think I need to fetch my things in case you run me out of your quarters and bring the beast up to the tower instead."

The Inquisitor laughed, head thrown back and eyes closed. It was an unguarded moment, and Dorian cherished it. Such moments grew rarer as the Inquisitor's power and influence spread.

"I have not yet made a choice. Do you have any suggestions, Dorian?"

"Do I?"

"Yes, do you? You saw me ride him yesterday in the courtyard, then down the slopes. What did you think?"

Dorian peered into the hart's eye and pondered the previous day's sights. A strange, exotic, high-pitched neighing of a hart so completely foreign to a horse-rider pierced the air as hooves kicked the earth and hart and elf dashed forward in a streak of white and brown. Dorian thought of the quarrel full of arrows laying at the foot of the Inquisitor's bed, shaft carved from cedar and fletched in snow-falcon feathers. An arrow, once let loose from the bowstring cannot return. Dorian wondered if the slight elf before him would ever return to his brothers in the Free Marches.

"You know, I had never realized how little of the Elvhen tongue remains unlost. I searched the books of your library all day yesterday and could not find the word I sought; so I asked Solas."

"You asked Solas to teach you an Elvish word?"

"Yes, is that so strange?"

Ymrann answered with a soft chuckle. "I am merely pondering why you did not ask me."

"I… did not wish to disturb you. But yes, I did think of something when I saw you ride, and it was _Assan._"

"Arrow?"

The Inquisitor's head turned and met Dorian's gaze. He pondered it a moment, muttering the name to softly as to mull it over. All the while, a corner of Ymrann's lips curled up in a half-smile which set Dorian's stomach afire. For a moment, Dorian wanted to take his words back-surely there were more auspicious, grand, regal names. As he hastened to speak Ymrann stepped out of the stall, picking straw out of his hair. With his hand on Dorian's shoulder, the elf spoke:

"It's a good name, Dorian. I think I will call him by it. Seems fitting, since I am an archer myself. Thank you."


End file.
